TASMANIA POLICE
WITNESS STATEMENT

Statement Number: 2018-08-02/14387-C
Witness Name: Thelma Rose Jeffries (née Rose)
Date of Birth: 14 January 1924
Age: 94 years
Address: Jeffries Manor, Granton TAS 7030
Statement Taken By: Constable Emma Hargrove, Badge #5924
Date of Statement: 3 August 2018
Time of Statement: 10:15 hrs
Location of Interview: Jeffries Manor, Granton (Witness's bedroom)

Initial Contact: Witness was briefly interviewed at scene by Detective Sergeant Charlie Claiborne on 2 August 2018 at approximately 15:45 hrs (welfare check and preliminary account). Due to witness's advanced age, evident confusion, and distressed state, formal statement deferred to following day.

---

STATEMENT:

My name is Thelma Rose Jeffries, née Rose. I was born on the fourteenth of January, 1924, in New Norfolk. I married James Jeffries the Third in April of 1947, and I've resided at Jeffries Manor ever since—seventy-one years this past April, though one does rather lose count after a certain age.

I should explain about my friends at Vaucluse. My dearest friend Jane Lahey resides at Vaucluse Nursing Home in Lindisfarne, along with our mutual friend Bob Gangley. They've been there for some years now. Jane and I have known each other since we were girls—since 1942, to be precise. We explored these forests together, along with Bob. The three of us have been rather inseparable for most of our lives.

Jane is very ill now. Pancreatic cancer. She's in palliative care at Vaucluse, and her granddaughter Sarah visits her every day. Such a devoted girl. Jane speaks of her constantly. I used to visit them quite regularly—Jane and Bob—but my mobility has deteriorated considerably this past year, and the journey to Lindisfarne has become rather difficult for me. I haven't been able to see Jane as often as I'd like, which troubles me greatly, particularly now that she's so ill.

I've continued to live here at the manor with my family—with Louise and her husband Tom and their children. They look after me, though I spend most of my time upstairs in my room these days. The stairs have become quite impossible for me to manage without assistance.

On the afternoon of the second of August—yesterday—I was resting in my room. I don't leave it often anymore. Louise usually helps me down on Sundays for luncheon, but otherwise I remain where I am.

I was lying in bed, in that state between sleeping and waking, when I heard Louise shouting downstairs. Not calling, mind you, but shouting—quite unlike her. Her voice carried up through the floorboards, and she sounded absolutely terrified.

I tried to call out, but my voice hasn't the strength it once had. I attempted to rise, thinking perhaps I could reach the door, but by the time I'd managed to sit up, the shouting had moved outside. I could hear it through my window—Louise's voice and a man's voice, younger, unfamiliar.

Then I heard motor cars arriving. At least one, possibly two. Doors slamming, official-sounding voices. Police, I thought. Louise must have telephoned the police.

Some time later—I couldn't say precisely how long—I heard footsteps ascending the stairs. Quick, purposeful footsteps. Someone moving with considerable urgency.

My door opened. I hadn't locked it—I never do.

A young woman entered. Dark hair, kind eyes, dressed in plain clothes but carrying herself like someone official. A detective, I thought immediately.

"Hello, dear," I said.

She stepped into the room rather cautiously, and I could see she was armed, though she kept her weapon at her side. Checking the room for threats, I suppose. That's what they're trained to do.

She came to the side of my bed, and I reached out to take her hand. My hands shake rather badly these days, but I managed to grasp hers.

"It's so good to see you," I told her. "I wasn't sure if you would come."

I wasn't entirely certain whom I was speaking to in that moment, you understand. The light in the room wasn't terribly good, and my eyesight has deteriorated. She looked so very much like Jane—the same eyes, the same way of holding herself. And I'd been thinking about Jane all morning, worrying about her at Vaucluse, wishing I could be there with her. So when this young woman walked through my door looking exactly as Jane did when we were young...

The young woman looked at me quite seriously and said, "We haven't met. Are you okay?"

"No, dear," I replied.

Because I wasn't all right, not really. My dearest friend is dying at Vaucluse and I cannot reach her, I've been confined to this room for weeks, there's shouting and chaos downstairs, and now this young woman who looks precisely like Jane has appeared in my bedroom with a gun.

She asked, "Are you hurt?"

I reached up and patted her neck—a gesture of reassurance, I suppose, though I'm not entirely certain whether I was reassuring her or myself.

The young woman looked at me with such concern, but I could see she was in a terrible hurry. She said, "I need to get back to Louise. I'm going to close the bedroom door again. Don't open it for anyone."

Very firm about it. Very like Jane when Jane had made up her mind about something.

As she turned to leave, I suddenly felt quite desperate. She was leaving, just as everyone leaves eventually, and Jane is dying, and I'm trapped in this room whilst something dreadful is happening downstairs.

"Jane, dear, don't go!" I cried out.

I called her Jane. I'm not entirely certain why. Perhaps I genuinely mistook her for my friend. Perhaps the stress of the afternoon had confused me. Or perhaps—and I think this is closer to the truth—I recognised something in her. Something familiar. Something inherited.

She stopped and turned back to look at me, and I saw the shock on her face when I used that name.

"Don't leave me again," I sobbed.

I was weeping by then. I'm not proud of it, but I was quite overcome. This young woman who looked like Jane, standing in my room whilst Jane herself lies dying in Lindisfarne, and all the memories of our youth flooding back—the forests, the adventures, the secrets Jane and Bob and I shared.

Then there was a terrible noise from outside. A mechanical sound, but wrong somehow. Loud and high-pitched and coming from the direction of the shed.

The young woman gasped, "Karl!" She looked absolutely terrified.

She turned back to me briefly and said, "I'm sorry. I have to go."

And then she was gone, running down the corridor.

After that, there was considerable commotion downstairs. More shouting. More motor cars arriving. Many people moving about. I remained in my room as I'd been instructed, though I felt quite anxious.

I must have fallen asleep eventually—these things exhaust one at my age—because when I woke, the light had changed considerably. It was much later in the afternoon. The house had gone very quiet. That particular quality of silence that settles after something dreadful has occurred.

Later, a police sergeant came to check on me. Not the young woman. An older gentleman with kind eyes. He asked if I was all right, if I needed anything. He asked a few questions about what I'd heard, but I could tell he was primarily concerned for my welfare. He told me someone would return the following day to take a proper statement.

They didn't tell me what had happened. They didn't explain where Louise had gone, or what became of the man in the shed, or why people had vanished. When one is ninety-four, people tend to withhold information.

But I do understand some things. I understand that the young woman who came to my room is named Sarah Lahey. I learned that from the sergeant who checked on me later. Sarah Lahey—Jane's granddaughter. The one Jane speaks of constantly, the one who visits her every day at Vaucluse.

I called her Jane, and she stopped. She turned back to look at me. And in that moment, I saw recognition in her eyes. Not confusion, not pity for a confused old woman, but recognition. As if some part of her understood why I'd used that name.

I should like someone to tell Jane that I saw her granddaughter yesterday. Tell her that Sarah came to the manor. Tell her that Sarah has inherited more than her eyes.

That's all I can tell you about yesterday's events.

---

STATEMENT CONCLUDED: 10:52 hrs

Witness Signature: [Elegant but shaky signature: Thelma R. Jeffries]

Statement Taken By: Constable Emma Hargrove, Badge #5924

Witness Demeanour Notes: Witness presented as remarkably lucid for her advanced age, though she exhibited some temporal confusion and emotional distress. Her speech was refined and formal, consistent with her background and generation. She became quite emotional when discussing her friend Jane Lahey (currently in palliative care at Vaucluse Nursing Home) and expressed significant distress about being unable to visit Jane due to her own declining mobility. Witness appeared to have genuine affection for Det. Sarah Lahey despite not having met her prior to 2 August. When describing the encounter, witness acknowledged calling Det. S. Lahey by her grandmother's name and suggested this was due to resemblance, stress, and possibly something she described as "recognition." Witness mentioned looking for a "key" during the encounter but could not explain its significance. She was cooperative throughout interview despite evident fatigue and emotional distress regarding her friend's terminal illness.

Interviewing Officer Notes: Mrs Jeffries spoke in a very refined manner, very composed despite obvious emotional distress. The part about calling Det. Lahey "Jane" and then later recognising she was Jane Lahey's granddaughter was quite striking. She seemed to suggest there was more to it than simple confusion, though she didn't elaborate. Her request to tell Jane Lahey that she "saw her granddaughter" and that "Sarah has inherited more than her eyes" was touching but cryptic. She remained alert and engaged throughout despite being visibly tired.

Supervising Officer Review: Constable Hargrove has captured Mrs Jeffries's statement well. Core factual elements consistent with other witness accounts: heard disturbance, encountered Det. S. Lahey, heard unusual sound from shed, remained in room as instructed. The mistaken identity (calling Det. Lahey "Jane") is noteworthy given that Jane Lahey is Det. S. Lahey's grandmother and is currently terminally ill at Vaucluse. Witness's inability to visit her dying friend due to mobility issues adds context to her emotional state. The reference to Sarah Lahey having "inherited more than her eyes" is cryptic but may simply be an elderly woman's way of saying Det. Lahey resembles her grandmother. No concerns regarding witness welfare—family, particularly Louise Jeffries providing appropriate care. - Det. Sgt. C. Claiborne, Badge #2847

Statement Status: COMPLETED - WITNESS STATEMENT FILED

---

Logged by: Constable Emma Hargrove, Badge #5924
Reviewed by: Detective Sergeant Charlie Claiborne, Badge #2847
File Reference: Case 2018-08-02/14387 (Jenkins Disappearance)
Date Filed: 3 August 2018